Swain
by fringeperson
Summary: No one was sure how the stranger had appeared in the hall, but when Merida saw him, she also saw an opportunity to get out of marrying any of the sons of her father's old allies. It helped that he was attractive. Merida/Clint. Oneshot. Don't Own. Complete.


Dingle had just presented his son, and really, Merida had actually begun to think it wouldn't be so bad – that big man standing next to Dingle was quite the specimen, and she _was_ a teenager – but then he'd gone and pulled that weedy, dopey looking boy out from behind and, well, so much for that!

Macintosh was just opening his mouth – to say something insulting, she was sure – when a body appeared about four feet off the ground in a horizontal position, and slammed down on the flagstones.

"Oh that hurt," he – for the figure was _definitely_ male – grumbled as he pushed himself up and looked around.

Every face was completely stunned to see him there. After all, where had he come from?

"Where am I?" the man asked as he finally stood straight, still looking around him in confusion, his words in direct counter to everyone else's thoughts.

"You have arrived in the court of my father," Merida spoke up when she saw how put-out even her dear, composed mother was by the sudden intrusion. A slow smile spread across her face as she looked him over a brief moment. "Fate seems to have presented _you_ as her candidate to compete for my hand, as the lairds have brought _their_ sons," she added.

"Merida!" her mother scolded.

"Mum," she answered. "You're not _really_ going to deny the man that was brought here by unknown and supernatural means, are you?" she asked. "Besides, he might _not_ win."

"Compete to win the hand of a princess?" he asked softly, having caught the bit where the girl had said it was _her father's court_. Ipso facto, he was the king and she was a princess. He looked around again at the older that were stood most forward (and arguing about the legality of him competing) and the younger men at their sides who he figured pretty quickly were to be his competition if they and he went along with this.

There was a sheepish-looking large boy with blonde hair and a big chin, there was a fairly well proportioned boy with very _flowing_ hair and a superior look on his face, and a vague looking lad with his white-blonde hair sticking up at an odd angle.

Then he looked back at the girl, Merida, and personally thought she was too young to be getting married at all.

He sighed visibly. "Who am I to deny the unknown powers of Fate?" he said, catching all of their attention, and breaking up their squabble. "Who are _any_ of us to deny Fate?" he added pointedly.

"That's a good question, actually," the big man on the throne said as the lairds all backed down in acceptance of him. "You haven't introduced yourself."

"I am Clint, sometimes called 'Hawkeye'," he answered.

"Of what clan?" the woman (who was probably the queen) asked sternly.

Clint shook his head. "I am the last of my family," he replied.

"And what are your achievements?" demanded one of the lairds, apparently not _quite_ placated on the matter of a stranger competing against his son. "Our sons have all great victories to their names."

"With a team of but five at my side, I have defeated an army that was as plentiful as ants as they flowed from their nest," Clint answered solemnly, "I have fought at the side of gods, and in the face of gods, and I have won."

And with that, he was permitted to compete.

Clint watched the girl though, Merida, as the queen explained the way this traditional competition worked. He could just about _see_ the gears turning in her head. She didn't particularly _want_ to be married, and had just caught on enough of a loop-hole that she _might_ be able to get out of it.

"Archery!" she declared excitedly the instant her mother said that the competition would be the princess's choice. Merida composed herself and said more calmly, "I chose archery."

Clint held back a smirk. Well, it looked like he was going to be marrying a princess.

"Let the games begin!" proclaimed the king happily.

~oOo~

Clint, being something of an interloper, was set up furthest from the royal box and would be shooting last. The big lad went first, and really didn't look at _all_ comfortable with something as delicate as a bow in his hands. Missed it by a mile. The guy with the swishy hair went second, and he got it _much_ closer, but still not in the red-painted centre. The third... Clint shook his head. Being _distracted_ from his shot had allowed him to hit dead centre, meaning there was a high probability he _wouldn't_ have if he hadn't been yelled at to just shoot.

And now it was his turn. He drew one of his carbon-fibre arrows from his quiver, lined it up, drew, and released. Perfect. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the young princess sag in relief, and had a feeling that she would have only gone for her _other_ plan if he _hadn't_ made a perfect shot.

As it was, because two of them had hit the first set of targets perfectly, they were now being bid to reclaim their arrows before the targets were moved back.

This time, no one distracted the other boy from his shot, and it fell short of the target. Clint had no such problems however, hit dead centre a second time, and was escorted to stand before the royal family as the victor.

"It's really for the best, I suppose," the king said, directing his comment to the lairds. "After all, if one of your sons had married Merida, who would have taken over after you?"

The lairds all blinked, apparently having not thought of that until that moment, and slowly nodded in agreement.

"Now," the king said as he stood from his chair, and offered a hand to his daughter, pulling her out of hers as well. "I present to you my daughter, who's hand you have this day won," he said solemnly. And then he grinned. "Let there be feasting!" he declared loudly.

Clint held out his hand for Merida, to escort her down the steps of the royal box and off to wherever the feasting would happen. He was surprised to feel callouses on her hand as it slipped into his, and then he spotted the bow and arrow by the chair she'd been sitting in.

He raised an eyebrow at her. "So what was your plan if the handsome stranger didn't win?" he asked softly as they turned to head for where the feasting would happen.

"I'd have grabbed my bow and declared an intent to compete for my own hand," she answered, just as softly.

Clint chuckled. "If you didn't want to get married though, you went about it wrong," he said as they walked.

Merida looked up at him curiously.

"You told them they had to win at a sport," Clint pointed out. "It was always _possible_ that they could win, and then you'd be stuck with them. You should have said you would have them compete to win your _heart_."

Merida blinked as that sank in, then grit her teeth, clenched her eyes shut, and moaned to herself for not thinking of that.

Clint chuckled again. "And now you're stuck with me," he pointed out.

Merida released a soft chuckle of her own. "I don't think that will be _too_ bad," she answered hopefully.

"I'll do my best," Clint answered with a smile.

~The End~


End file.
